If the biblical Cyrus could choose restoration over conquest, then Israel can too
In a recent social media post, Cardinal Pablo Virgilio David pointed to a haunting reversal of a biblical story in connection with the ongoing conflict between Iran and Israel.
The cardinal’s comment came after Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu suggested on June 19 at a hospital in Beersheba — about a thousand kilometers from Babylon, the ancient seat of Jewish captivity — that it was time for the Jews to repay their ancient debt to Cyrus the Great by “liberating” Iran.
Netanyahu invoked the biblical story of the liberation of Israel (Ezra 1:1-4) in reverse. “2,500 years ago, Cyrus the Great … liberated the Jews,” Netanyahu said. “And today, a Jewish state is creating the means to liberate the Persian people.”
The irony extends beyond history, distorting sacred memory. A narrative once grounded in return and restoration is now employed to justify airstrikes as acts of deliverance.
In the Hebrew Scriptures, Cyrus the Great is remembered not as a conqueror but as an unlikely agent of peace. Although he is a foreigner to Israel’s faith, he is called “the Lord’s anointed” in Isaiah 45 — a title of divine calling.
His decree did not threaten; it restored. He sent the exiles home, returned the temple treasures, and invited neighbors to contribute silver and gold for the rebuilding. That’s the story now being flipped — from a sacred act of mercy into a pretext for military might.
The late Walter Brueggemann, one of the most influential biblical theologians of our time, referred to this as “a revolutionary imagination.”
He asserted that the prophetic tradition opens space for the unexpected — deliverance to come from the margins and for empires to be used not to dominate but to dismantle domination itself. “Texts that are void of context,” Brueggemann warned, “become weapons of ideology.”
That is exactly what we must guard against when today’s leaders invoke Scripture to justify acts of war.
Netanyahu’s language positions Israel as a liberator, even a messiah. However, in doing so, it rewrites the narrative.
The biblical Cyrus did not conquer Jerusalem; he restored it. He did not drop bombs; he issued an edict. His was not a campaign of fear or retaliation but a gesture of restoration.
This liberation bears no resemblance to the airstrikes and assassinations currently described as pre-emptive justice. To call that biblical is to strip the text of its moral core.
Brueggemann argued that the prophets do not serve the interests of the empire; rather, they interrupt them. The prophetic voice, he wrote, is meant to “evoke a consciousness and perception alternative to the consciousness and perception of the dominant culture.”
Prophets are not chaplains of the state; they are its conscience. They do not bless the weapons of the powerful — they weep over them.
That is why Cardinal David’s reflection carries such weight. In just a few lines, he unsettled the dominant framing. Without partisan posturing, he returned us to the story and challenged us to remember it correctly.
That, in itself, is a prophetic act. In contexts like the Philippines and Israel, where Scripture is cherished but often reduced to slogans, reclaiming the complexity of the text involves more than just faith or tradition. It encompasses conscience, justice, and our relationships with others.
What we are witnessing is more than a military campaign. It is a struggle over narrative — over who gets to claim the legacy of justice, liberation, and divine mandate. If Cyrus, a pagan king, could be a vessel of peace, what does it imply when leaders today use his name to justify violence?
“Peace,” Brueggemann reminded us, “is not the absence of conflict, but the practice of justice.” That practice requires more than firepower. It requires memory. It requires imagination. And it requires that we resist the temptation to turn Scripture into a slogan for empire.
The prophets didn’t write to flatter kings; they spoke to challenge them. Again and again, Scripture shows God working not through the usual channels but through outsiders, exiles, and even former enemies who act with courage and mercy. Cyrus didn’t free the people by force; he did it with a word, not a sword — an act of trust, not domination.
So when leaders talk about liberation today, we must ask: Does it heal or harm? Does it restore or reduce others to rubble? The answer will tell us whether we are following the spirit of Cyrus or simply using his name in vain.
Cardinal David’s post is followed by “A Cry to the Conscience of Israel,” where he deepens this call, not as an outsider issuing blame, but as a faith leader urging a return to memory, to truth, to mercy.
He makes it plain: no government, no alliance, no global superpower can change the heart of a nation. Only the people themselves can do that. Those who carry the weight of their own suffering can also choose to stop its repetition.
He writes: “For the life of me, I cannot understand why people insist that the situation between Israel and the Palestinians is ‘complicated.’ It is not. It only seems so to those who are unwilling to call a spade a spade.”
“What breaks the heart is this: that a people who have known unspeakable suffering throughout history — whose memory of the Holocaust still cries out from the ashes — should now be led by ideologues blind to the irony of their own actions.”
“Only they can rise and say, ‘Not in our name.’ Only they can demand that their state no longer builds its future on the foundations of vengeance, fear, and resentment. A secure and just nation cannot be founded on the ruins of another people’s humanity.”
Brueggemann reminded us that the prophetic tradition does not comfort the empire; it confronts it. It reclaims memory not to justify the present order but to reimagine what could be.
That’s what Cardinal David has done. And it’s what many others — Jews and non-Jews alike — are now doing when they rise and say: Not in our name.
Throughout history, faith leaders like Desmond Tutu, Martin Luther King Jr., and Saint Óscar Romero have reclaimed sacred stories to build bridges, not walls; to heal wounds, not deepen them. Their lives remind us that true liberation begins with mercy and moral courage, not retaliation.
The reversal is real. The violence is real. But so is the hope. If Cyrus could choose restoration over conquest, then Israel can too — not with more firepower, destruction, and death, but with justice, mercy, and a memory of the God who once set them free.
The views expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official editorial position of UCA News or Catholic Outlook.
With thanks to the Union of Catholic Asian (UCA) News and Jess Agustin, where this article originally appeared.
